Triad Winning Poems 2018

Triad Winning Poems 2018

Undisturbed

By Marilyn Zelke Windau

TRIAD PRIZEKay Saunders Memorial New Poet1st Place

She dreams in those quiet hourswhen staff and residents are undisturbed.She gathers her blanket around her arms,covers most of her face, protects her feetwith the elastic spa socks that someone—who? gave her.This room looks like all the others:two beds, two dressers, two lamps, two tvs,one clock, one window, one closet.There are one hundred seventy four squareson the floor. It’s linoleum, brown with tiny lines.She doesn’t know how long she’s been here.She doesn’t know where she lived before.She doesn’t remember her childhood,except for a color: lavender.Was that the color of her room all those years ago?She dreams colors, though she can’t name them.In her sleep, she recites J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan—loves to fly over Never Never,thinks Smee is an ok dude,never met a crocodile she could trust.She’s not sure if she’s asleep when she’s awake.Smells emanate from down a hallway.Sleepwalking to them affords giftsof food, drink, mainline talkers, crybabies,rattling dishes, televised game shows.Sometimes she sings out loud.“Day do run run run.”“Round the ball clear down the field boys.”“I saw you standing alone,without a dream in your heart.”There’s a man who shares her room.One of the beds, dressers, lamps, tvs are his.He smiles sometimes and calls her “Sweety.”Most of the time he wanders and wonders.He’s her new friend.“Husband” a nurse called him.What does that mean?

Louie's Place

By Gary Haren

TRIAD PRIZEPoets Choice2nd Place

Only a small signhung outin a rusted metal frame

above the ordinary door,like any door leadingfrom a downtown street

to an upstairs apartment, but this doorled downa creaking wooden stair,

steps worn smooth and round,to a narrow, dark and smoky roomwhere men with pool sticks in their hands

and tipped brown bottles to their lipsand spread their legs, crouched low and leanedover their sticks

to aimand smiles of silver smoke rosefrom their nostrils.

Some men sat on benchesalong the wallsstaring

from the shadows.Others shuffled and dealtat tables in the back, but all of them always

looking overwhenever they heard the sound,and I felt their hollow eyes follow me

on that daywhen I went downthe creaking wooden stair.

Smitten

By Maryann Hurtt

TRIAD PRIZETheme: Small Talk2nd Place

my mother was crazyabout flea-banethe tiny daisy but not really a daisyflower I see on my hike todayit's end of July hotand I wait for sweet berrieslisten, all these piecesdo fit togetherthe way strawberriesthe wild onespicked themselvesinto her palmand the flea-banemade her drop downto caress their miniature livesI believe she knew their languagesmall talk reallybut her heart savvyin the how and why and where

Homecoming for the Ages

By R. Chesney

TRIAD CONTESTKate Saunders Memorial New Poet3rd Place

We first saw her nestingalongside the air conditioner unither hind legs walking in placelike a band majorette.She was small for a snapper.Returning here where she herself hatched,generation after generation her descendentshere before this house stood,here before this community planted its roots,here before human kind walked this land.

After a few hours she slowlytraipsed to the corner of the garage,her neck peeking out from withina carpet of scraggly poppy foliage,the bright red flowers contrastingher bullet grey armor.Five minutes later she was gone,mission accomplished.

Within minutes at the end of the driveway,my wife exited her car, walkedinto the middle of the roadand began directing trafficlike an off duty police officer.“Get a towel!”We gently started to nudge the snapper into a grocerybox, one with handle slots and an ill-fitting cover,the towel over the turtle’s head—she temperamental, her necklashing out from side to siderapid bursts—lightning chargedlike some prehistoric dinosaur.Fortunately, her smaller soccer ball sizemade this an easier task.Once snuggled inside the box,the cover loosely attached—we loaded our cargo in the green garden wagonand began a slow journey creek wardwhere months hence her clutch will follow.

Rubber gloved, I grab the boxfrom the bottom, the mildew mud smellof creek water in the air—gently turning the box to ease her out

the towel loosely swaddled around her body—there we left her with hopes she would travelwest rather than retrace her stepsback to the road and the distant cornfield.Exhausted. The running water would provideher relief.

Later that evening I covered her nestwith a disk golf basket turned upside downstaking it to ward off nocturnal predators.How I remember last springwhen I was startled from deep sleepby the hellish screeches of raccoonsfighting for newly hatched turtle eggs.The next morning broken shellslay scattered across the hilllike locust tree blossoms.Yes, this is Nature’s way—but caretakers we remainfor even the least of these—the snappers.

West Fork of the Kickapoo River

By Martha Jackson Kaplan

TRIAD PRIZEPoet’s Choice3rd Place

A rush of strong wind pushes against my facesound changesaccelerates

A gust of bird-chirps and rustle of grassestumble down the slope that marks landwhere the river veers quietly

through the valley, cutting the breech,carving tough sandstone and roughlime of the old Ocooch hills.

algae from water plants to let them breathelight into unlit waters. I wantjust one more day along this river

to list the grasses, sedges, twigs and branchesthat branch over the west forkand shade living creatures,

the insects, river mites, crayfish, frogs and lizards,to list the un-named specie waitingfor words in river, veer and verge

along the ridges of the Driftless Zone, the old, un-glaciated,un-scraped hills, water-carved, root-lockedin dogwood, speckled alder and yellow birch.

I want days as unfinished as bedrock and river,enumerations as dense as flora and fauna, wordsas tough as dolomite.

Crosswords

By Gene James Gilbert

TRIAD PRIZEKay Saunders Memorial New Poet Prize2nd Honorable Mention

It was nine months after your passing, Dad,your death that came too suddenly,too soon,that Ma found your P-E-N(4 Across: a three letter word for writing implement)on the carpeted bedroom floor,beneath the headboard and framethe movers dismantled,placed on the truckwith the packed boxesfor her move to W-I-S-C-O-N-S-I-N(21 Down: nine letters for 30th State).She shared with me the anger you carried for D-A-Y-S,D blank blank S,(the period between sunrise and sunset, plural)over the loss of your two dollar crosswords pen.You refused to use a pencil,no indecisive gum rubbing erasures for Y-O-U(pronoun, used with reference to the person addressed).Being your oldest child,a son,I know I carry the blessings and the curses.I know this two buck pen in my handgives me access to puzzlesI never desired to solvebefore your death.But now I grasp this scepter,that somehow you have passed to mewithout words,for some way of making our family legacyI-N-D-E-L-I-B-L-E(something that cannot be removed).